I'm not Superman
by Orwell
Summary: Art's first year of band camp proves to be almost more trouble than it's worth, until that first game where everything changes.
1. Welcome to hell

"David Arthur Renault!" I jump a foot out of my bed and onto the floor as my mother's shriek fills my ears. "You do _not_ want to be late to your first day of band camp!" No, of course not, Mom. I glance at the clock. Seven in the morning is just too early to be functioning in July, especially when school doesn't start for three and a half more weeks. My spine cracks as I drag myself off the floor.

My fifteen-year-old bones shouldn't be doing that.

I grope my way toward the bathroom with closed eyes and don't open them until I am standing at the sink. I stare at the mop of blonde hair on my head. I stare at my abnormally large nose. I stare at my narrow, almost girly, jaw line. I can't bring myself to look into my eyes. I can't sand to see the pale blue mock me. I'm so pasty. Maybe I'll get a tan…

"Art! Hurry up!" It is my brother's voice this time. I retreat into my bedroom after brushing my teeth and pull a pair of shorts out of my dresser. I don't bother changing my shirt. After and hour on the field no one will notice that it hasn't been washed in a week anyways.

I practically fall down the stairs in my sleep-induced haze, but I, thankfully, make it to the kitchen without collapsing. I grab an apple and a bottle of water out of the fridge, pick up my saxophone and head for the front door. I see Jack begin to follow me out of the corner of my eye. I turn abruptly and he stops dead in his tracks.

"I'll walk. Thanks, anyway, bro," and I leave.

* * *

I notice two things as I step foot onto the field: one, I'm early, incredibly early; two, only one other person is here. I move slowly toward the awning and the bench on which said person is seated. As I approach, I see a saxophone case tucked under the bench, near his feet. I choose a spot far enough from him and sit.

Silence.

He hadn't looked up as I stepped closer to his resting place, but seeing as he plays saxophone, I feel the obligation to say something to him. I honestly am not in the mood for making new friends, but I'll end up talking to him sometime anyways, so I sigh and open my mouth to speak.

"Hello," says a voice that most definitely is not my own. I wonder for a moment why my voice is suddenly so deep and why I said "hello" instead of the intended "what's up?" He stares at me until I realized that it was he who had spoken. I struggle to form a response.

"H-hey," I stutter. In a burst of uncommon spontaneity, I slide across the cold stone bench and extend my hand. He takes it firmly.

"I'm Art," I say.

"Christopher," he smirks. "I'm your section leader. Welcome to Hell, noob."

And he walks away. Just like that. Something tells me that this guy has serious mental issues. He probably isn't even safe to be in public. Maybe I should call the cops. I reach for my cell phone and dial "9" before I stop. Mr. Ford, the band director, has arrived.

Hell indeed, Christopher.

I put my phone away and begin assembling my horn. Many other band members have showed up since my arrival. After scanning the small crowd for a moment, I see a small group of saxophones congregated near the twenty-yard line. I gather all of the courage I have and join them.

The first person I get a good look at is a girl, a very tall girl. She has to be at least five inches taller than my tiny five foot four inch frame. As I stop on the outskirts of the tight knit circle, I catch a glimpse of my section leader before the giant girl steps in my way. I reach up to tap the giant on the shoulder but am beat to it when a tiny ball of fluff attacks her.

"Samantha!" the fluff screams. Giant, whose name is Samantha, twists around and screams almost as loud as Puffball.

"Ariel!" Samantha reaches out for a hug and winds up lifting Ariel off the ground.

Suddenly sobered, Puffball brushes her shorts off and walks away with a shout of "Gotta get my flute!" over her shoulder.

And all eyes are on me, the deer in the headlights. I feel like an intruder on a very private party. It just has to be my psycho section leader that saves the day.

"Guys, this is Art. Art, guys."

I give a slight nod and a sheepish smile. Everyone acknowledges me and goes back to their conversation, surprisingly leaving me a space in the circle. I step into the spot and begin observing. There are five people standing around me.

There are three boys: Christopher and two I have never seen before. After a few minutes, I find out that their names are James and Samuel. James is quite tall, at least six-four, and he looks very awake. I notice his fingers fidgeting on the valves of his trumpet every few seconds, as if he is anxious to get started. Samuel is almost the exact opposite. He's almost as short as me and is practically a zombie.

The other girl is extremely quiet and keeps looking at Samuel earnestly. He is oblivious, as is expected, I suppose. I hear a whistle from the distance and the people around me scatter. It was this pause between a state of confusion and action that I noticed the conversation.

They were talking about star gate openings and volcanoes.

Christopher glares at me and jerks his head at the center of the field. Dick.

"Marching position. Now. Move it! Move it!" I see Mr. Ford blowing a whistle from the center of the field. The sound registers in my mind. I know what the words mean, but they don't make sense when put in that order. Marching position? What? I look around for a little bit of help, but I see no familiar faces. I decide it would be best just to stand there stupidly.

Suddenly, there is a hand on my elbow, yanking me forward, and Christopher's voice is in my ear.

"Flutes, clarinets, saxophones and mellophones, trumpets, trombones and baritones, and tubas. Starting from the ten-yard line, five yards apart, facing Ford." Then his voice is gone and he is standing five feet away. I look down and realize that I am still on the twenty, but I'm in the middle of the field.

"Band, ten hut," Mr. Ford shouts. A chorus of "hut"s is the reply.

I glance around and there is no movement. Backs are erect, chins are up, instruments are high. There is nothing out of place, except me. I snap back to reality and copy the stance of everyone who is surrounding me. I look back to the director's platform and there is a girl standing in Mr. Ford's previous spot. She begins clapping rapidly, and I have no idea who she is or what she is doing. Her mouth opens, and…

"Band, horns up!"

Wow, that was snappy. I put my mouthpiece on my lips a moment late. She is clapping again, more slowly, and I realize that she is keeping time.

"Forward march!"

Wait, what?

* * *

So apparently when the drum major says, "forward march," you, meaning every single person in the band, are supposed to step off with your left foot and march in the direction of forward, perfectly in step, all while you attempt to stay in rank and try not to trip.

It's a lot harder than it may sound.

After the entire band marched together, we split up into sections and began to learn how to do what we just did. We also got to know everyone in our sections.

There are nine saxophones: me, Christopher, Samuel, Samantha, a guy named Stephen (I think he's a senior), a guy named Charles ("call me 'Chuck'") Taylor, a girl whose name I think is Brianna (I'm not quite sure, though), and two guys whose names I don't remember.

Christopher is just as much of a douche as I first believed him to be, but everyone seems to love him. He's a junior and he's been playing sax for nine years. He's first chair in Wind Ensemble and everybody worships him. Why?

Obviously, the world has gone crazy.

* * *

After eleven hours of practice, Christopher has decided that I am far behind the other rookie in the marching department. He has also decided that on Saturday we will spend the entire day at his house for one-on-one marching practice. He has decided that he will pick me up at seven o'clock in the morning.

Oh, joy. Fifty-eight hours until hell.


	2. The Devil's Point of View

I glance in the mirror on my way out of the house. My hair is a mess, but there is nothing I can do; I'm already running behind. I grab my sax and run through the house, only stopping for a moment to say goodbye to my father. Ah, staring lovingly at the television. You started early today. I glance at the beer bottle and roll my eyes.

"It's seven a.m. Christ, Bill." A response is unlikely, so I continue on my merry way.

I walk slowly. No hurries now. I made it safely out of the house without being stopped by Benjamin. My worries are officially over for the day.

What's that you say? Oh, band camp is nothing compared to the wrath of my older brother. It's a walk in the park. A walk in the freaking park.

I wonder what type of rookies there will be this year. Hopefully none of them will be as obnoxious as that Roger fellow was. Maybe I'll get lucky and he quit…

Fat chance, Chris, old boy, that kid was good.

I wish I didn't have to walk. Five blocks. Or maybe I should've chosen a lighter instrument, like a flute.

Oh, I've arrived. Five blocks is nothing compared to eleven hours of band camp. Nothing.

Nobody is here, yet. Perfect.

I'll just sit under this awning. That stone bench looks ever so comfortable.

I cannot believe Mr. Ford made me a section leader. This is only my second year in band. Ah, the Big Blue Marching Band. It's a very original name, no? I can't tell you how many other big bands I've met in my times. Big Red, Big Yellow, you name it I've seen it. Even better, we're the "wildcats." Yes, the "wildcats." But before you start judging us, let me tell you one thing: we kick ass.

Section leader is the most coveted position of those who march. Ford found me worthy. I am humbled. I am honored. I am… ooh, visitor. And he plays saxophone. This is going to be fun.

I don't look up as he hesitates in front of me, deciding where he should sit. He finally takes a seat about three feet away from me.

Wow, this is a long bench.

It's time to take action; he's about to say something.

"Hello," I say in my most menacing voice. I can see him falter. I can see the intimidation in his… beautiful, cold eyes. Wait! Shit! Retreat, retreat!

Crap he's holding his hand out. Did he just say his name is Art? Maybe it was Bart. Shit!

"Christopher," I feel a smirk form. It's a good thing I know how to keep cool because this is the fun part. Wait for it… Wait for it… Now! "I'm your section leader. Welcome to Hell, noob."

And I walk away. Just like that.

* * *

Ah, James and Samuel. I walk over to where they are standing.

"Hello, boys. Excited?" I stop in front of them and wait for an answer. Sam grunts. I'll take that as a yes, then. I look at James. Is he staring at something? What is he staring at? Oh, for goodness sake. James deserves a right slap in the face. I turn around to see what has him so preoccupied.

Samantha and Rory. Of course.

I make to walk away, but both of the girls have joined the circle and have started asking about out summers. I can't be rude, now can I? Of course not, Chris. That is not how your mother raised you.

I don't have a mother. I had a mother, but she is was. Insensitive asshole.

Rory's talking. Strike that, Rory is spewing more nonsense. I swear that girl has diarrhea of the mouth. And the way she keeps looking at Samuel is starting to piss me off.

"Oh, come on, talk to me Kosher Boy." Rory just winked at Sam!

"God, you whore, he's not even Jewish," I say before I can even think.

Who's got diarrhea now, old buddy?

Rory is a fish. I swear! Or maybe her mother is a fish. There must be something in her genes the way she's gaping like that.

Her mouth seems to have started working again. Pity.

"I am not a whore!"

"Your vagina is the size of a freakin' stargate opening! Why is that? Because you're a whore."

Oh God, Samantha's being attacked by a little ball of fluff… Nevermind, it's just—

"Ariel!"

I love how Samantha can finish my sentences without even knowing that I am talking. Inside my head.

Suddenly, everyone's eyes are on something else. I look behind Sammy and see a fairly familiar figure.

Hey, Chrissy, it's that Bart dude. Or Art. I'm pretty sure it's Art. Anyway, isn't that the one you thought was cute?

I didn't. I'm not a fag.

You're talking to yourself.

Am not.

You should probably introduce him.

Right, uh…

Don't call him Bart!

"Guys, this is Art. Art, guys."

The guy you have the hots for.

Shut the hell up.

"Ha ha, when Rory gets her period, it would be like a volcano or something." Samuel guffaws at his own (poor) joke. Sometimes I wish he was a zombie all the time.

"It would rain sulfur when she pees!" James adds enthusiastically.

"My vagina is not a fucking stargate opening!" Rory protests.

I tune out the conversation and watch the rookie. He hasn't said anything. Quite frankly, I think he's surprised we left him a place in the circle.

He is so nervous. It's hilarious.

Ford has stepped onto the podium. The whistle blows in three… two… one… and the entire band scatters onto the field and into marching position.

I make my way to the middle of the twenty-yard line. I stand for a moment waiting for the next command before I realize that Rookie hasn't moved. One would think that he'd be smart enough to follow the other horns of his own kind. There were only _three_ standing right next to him.

Obviously not, as he is still standing there.

I suppose it is my duty to help him.

I curse Ford for making me a section leader.

I hurry to the rookie and grab him by the arm. By now, we are the only ones moving. Hopefully, we aren't called to attention right now. I begin to drag him to the center of the twenty-yard line and explain exactly what marching position is.

He better be listening.

As Paige stands in front of us and calls out commands, I watch Rookie out of the corner of my eye. He has absolutely no idea what he's doing and it's all I can do not to break out in laughter at his utter lack of sense. If I had no self-control, I'd be rolling around on the grass laughing maniacally at how horrid of a marcher he is. After today, however, and eleven hours of my marvelous 'teaching skills,' he will be the second best marcher in this entire band. After me, of course. I didn't march Capital Sound this summer for nothing.

* * *

How is it that Rookie is only one of two rookie saxes this year? I asked Samuel why and he said that another girl is at a funeral and had permission from Ford to miss the first week. That idiot girl is going to be extremely behind. I'd pity her if I wasn't her section leader. However, I am, and the only person I feel sorry for is myself. I'm tempted to pass this girl off to Stephen when she finally shows her despicable face. Second-in-command should be able to handle teaching her the basics and the first few drills.

That's exactly what I'll do. Poor Stephen.

…But I don't feel sorry for him.

* * *

Hot damn… Rookie is more pitiful than I thought he would be. Never have I misjudged someone so horrendously. I mean… I've always prided myself on my fantastic judge of character. It seems I am losing my touch.

Well, I made it through the first day without slaying anyone. Though I came close many times. Art, especially.

"Rookie! Wait up!" I yell to Art before he starts to walk off-campus. It takes him a second to realize I'm talking to him. I get about twelve feet closer before he turns around and sighs.

He was going in the same direction I need to go.

I catch up to him, but I don't stop. I don't even acknowledge him as I walk by. I chuckle when I hear him exclaim from behind me.

"Weren't you calling me?" He runs to my side and falls in step.

"Yeah." I still don't look at him.

"And?" I believe he is waiting for some sort of reason as to why I called his name. Why should he think I want to speak with him?

…Oh, yeah.

"Uh… You suck at marching." Yeah, that's why I'm talking to him.

"Thanks," he says sarcastically.

Only Rookie would even think of taking that as a compliment, albeit a bit sarcastically. Anyways, I think there was something else I wanted to say. I glance down at the blond beside me. Wow, he's kind of short.

Okay, back on track, Chris. Was there even a track? I don't quite recall…

He's looking at me. Probably waiting for me to say something. Or maybe he's trying to shoot laser beams at me with his eyes. I'll choose the former; I'm not quite ready to die. I have a rookie to torture.

Oh, yeah!

"Saturday at seven a.m." I pause.

"Saturday at seven…" He tries to coax the rest out of me. Well, I'll just leave him hanging, then. See how he likes that.

We walk in silence for ninety seconds. He keeps looking at me.

"Well, this is my turn." He looks at me again.

I guess I have to spit out the rest of my sentence.

"I'll pick you up at seven on Saturday. You need extra practice."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Oh… okay… Um…" He seems to be at a loss for words. I almost laugh out loud at his gape.

My rookie is a fish.

At that I do chuckle and he gives me a weird look.

"I live four houses that way." He points to the right and then starts walking in the same direction.

"See ya," I say and start walking again.

Fifty-eight hours until I get to introduce this kid to the devil.

I simply cannot wait.


End file.
